The Flock (SPN / destiel)

The Flock: Part 6

When Dean reaches the place where the door should be, there's no door. It was there, he saw it, just like he saw the empty front room. But the door is gone, a stretch of plaster in its place.

The smell of burning wood reaches his nostrils. It must be coming from the fireplace downstairs. He sniffs. It's sweet, like burning leaves, but thicker and stronger than the smoke that hovered in the front room. Underfoot, the floor is thrumming.

Ribbons of smoke curl from somewhere unseen. Tendrils wind into his nose, down his throat, to coil in his lungs. The hallway clouds with it. His eyes sting and water, leaking tears down his face.

Through the wall, Sam coughs, and Dean is momentarily transposed with him: he can't breathe, his skin burns, his heart is frantic with the terror of no escape. He inhales lungfuls of smoke, the stench of burning hair. Sammy's trapped on the other side of the wall, and the room is on fire.

Goddamn house must be cursed.

Chants fly from his mouth, incantations, rites. Latin and fragments of Enochian he pieced together from Cas. He tries to counter whatever magic infuses the space with a long string of them—something's gotta work. He pats down the wall for the coolest spot, prepared to break through, but the words don't have any effect. The house is still burning.

"I'm coming, Sammy, hang on!" he shouts and heaves his weight into the wall.

It doesn't give. This place is built like a brick shithouse. He shoves and shoves, rams his shoulder into the plaster over and over and over, until he feels it dislocate, but the wall doesn't budge. He's barely managed to dent it. He keeps trying through the pain, fueled by Sam's coughing.

The smoke is quickly replaced by fire: great yellow tongues that lap at the dilapidated walls. Fire oozes out like blood, like the blood of this house, and spreads in every direction. Dean scrapples at the too-hot wall, pounds it with his fists, peels away loose chunks with his fingers even though they burn, even though the fire is advancing.

Sam coughs again; it comes out as a baby's mewl. Dean is four years old, and the nursery is on fire.

Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back.

He calls Sam's name again, begins to punch, focusing his energy on one spot the height of his chest. He punches until his knuckles leave a bloody imprint with every blow. He calls Sam's name, but Sam doesn't answer.

Now, Dean, go!

A touch on his shoulder startles him. He whips around to see Cas watching him, head tilted in query. His narrowed eyes reflect the flames, as if he burns with it, composed of hellfire instead of grace. Dean's terror retreats at the sight of him.

"Cas!" he gasps, coughing through the smoke. There's no time to ask how he knew that they were here, how he found them. Cas still has mojo. He can get through the wall, get Sam to safety. Dean falls to his knees in relief. Cas sinks to the floor with him, so Dean points to the place a door should be. "It's Sam. He's trapped."

But Cas shakes his head, a slow and infuriating movement, and brushes his fingers along Dean's jaw, to his throat. He doesn't touch the wall. He doesn't try to reach Sam. Cas draws the smoke out of Dean's lungs and casts it away. Dean can breathe again, but the house is still burning.

"Cas," he repeats. "Please."

Behind him, Dean discerns a shape materialize in the smoke. Hannah rests a hand on Cas's shoulder. Castiel rises and takes a step back, away from Dean.

"Cas," Dean begs. "What's wrong with you? Get him out of there!"

Cas merely looks down on him, as cold and detached as he had been in the crypt. There's no humanity in his eyes. Dean glares at Hannah.